


Red is the Color of Blood

by extradimensional



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Canon, Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22042825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extradimensional/pseuds/extradimensional
Summary: When Alistair had screamed ‘For the Grey Wardens’ on the top of his lungs, (Merely a half hour ago? An hour? Yesterday? Two minutes ago?) he had meant it more as a battle cry than a death rattle.
Relationships: Alistair/Cullen Rutherford
Comments: 5
Kudos: 25





	1. Chapter 1

It is mid afternoon on their 8th day on the road. Finally, they’re about half a day’s ride to Skyhold after a rather boring bout of patrolling. Everyone is smelly, tired, and a bit sick of each other. 

“You think we’ll make it home before nightfall?” one of the younger recruits asks---one of Cullen’s. Her first outing, if Alistair remembered correctly. He _had_ been half asleep when Cullen read off his list of picks to bring with them. That was lucky in fact, else Alistair would have given him shit for making an actual bloody list of ten people out of around a thousand soldiers for what was essentially a glorified walk. 

“In order to do that, we’d have to get off our arses and pack up camp,” Cullen answers from where the horses are lined up, brushing out his own mare. Alistair eyes him in between plucking chunks of grass out of the ground. The sunlight makes his blond hair shine a little more than usual, maybe because even Cullen has given up on hair styling at this point on the road. Pieces that are normally pushed back into the most perfect quiff are haphazardly out of place, leaving the Commander to blow them out of his eyes every few minutes.

Alistair finds it charming. 

He had told Cullen so just that morning and had been answered by a blush that was terribly hidden.

“But don’t you think we should go after that pack of darkspawn heading North, boss? Isn’t sort of pointless to leave until they’re dealt with?” 

This causes Alistair to pay attention again, as he knows _that_ question is from a Grey Warden. No one in Cullen’s over zealously trained ranks would dare call him ‘boss’ or question an order that wasn’t given yet. But that’s the difference between the two of them, isn’t it? That’s what makes them work so well. Both have the same core values, stupidly similar pasts, but are opposites in almost every other manner. Cullen is much more reserved, traditional in most senses, and a leader in every sense of the word. Alistair is a sarcastic arse who has no problem with someone else taking control, and despises formal titles of any sort. 

They are the moon and sun most days.

“ _That_ was a rumor from a bartender. In my experience, limited as it may be, that is hardly enough evidence for a standoff. Besides, you _really_ want to take them down? Here of all places? Look, I understand that you guys might be itching for some fighting but this is a terrible location to kill a hoard of dark spawn.”

“That is literally our job, Alistair.”

Alistair sighs and digs his fingers back into the dirt. 

———————❖———————

  
Unfortunately for all involved, it was agreed at the start that Alistair would be leading this expedition. He is, somehow, the leader of the Grey Wardens and the one most likely to sense any danger of the unnatural variety. The small team of grey wardens (and the mixture of Cullen’s men that had volunteered to come in order to break up some of the mundane day to day at Skyhold) stare blankly at him. It takes Alistair a few moments to realize they’re doing that because they’re waiting for a decision. From him. Because he’s the leader now. Out of habit, he finds himself looking for Duncan or ‘the hero’ as those who were not there are prone to call her. It’s a reflex he still hasn’t kicked after all this time. 

But what is the right thing to do? Duncan was never one for running into trouble when there was no need for it, though he did delight in creating plot twists when there was some already brewing. 

He’d tell them to stay in camp. But Alistair does feel the pull of darkspawn. He had told Cullen and Dorian as such this morning, even if it is just the slightest sign. That feeling of something between a light migraine and tingling in his hands. He can’t pinpoint their direct location, but the fact that they’re in the middle of a literal forest, no one around is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because there would be no friendly fire or towns to burn to a crisp. A curse because if anyone got hurt, they are too far away from proper help for Alistair’s comfort. 

Alas, mid thought he hears the loud ripping sound of the rift, the bright green of the tear into the universe sparkling through the trees. All those with the sense feel the ripple of warning team through them too late, like the darkspawn had managed to hide themselves until there was no chance to prepare. 

He had taken too long to make a decision. Fate had made the choice for him. 

Alistair and Cullen’s eyes lock. No matter how much each wills it, fear sits in both their gazes.

They are completely and utterly fucked. 

  
———————❖———————

When Alistair had screamed ‘For the Grey Wardens’ on the top of his lungs, (merely a half hour ago? An hour? Yesterday? Two minutes ago?) he had meant it more as a battle cry than a death rattle.

Somehow, and he’s not exactly sure how he got here, he is completely surrounded by three Shrieks, a hurlock, and some other little freaky looking thing that he could no doubt remember the name of if he wasn’t fighting for his life and simultaneously trying not to piss his pants. 

Everyone else is divided outwards, eyes distracted by their own troubles so Alistair is once again all on his own. Someone will get to him once things cool down. He just has to hold on until then.

Surprisingly, he manages to kill off the shrieks easily enough, though his arms feel like they may fall off his shoulders from swinging a jabbing his sword in such quick succession. Their screams and hisses as they collapse to the ground fall on silent ears. Alistair whips around and struggles with the unnamed one, using all his health poultices in an attempt to stop the bleeding from a sudden shoulder wound. By the time he throws the final blow, he’s exhausted. So exhausted. He’s fought worse hordes before, sure, but normally there is a _tad_ more back up. They were supposed to be surveying for the Inquisitor, not taking down otherworldly foes. But here is he, struggling to take down a skeleton on steroids who smells bad to add insult to injury. If you’re going to completely obliterate someone, at least be polite about it. Use a breath mint. 

Alistair decides to take it a step at a time. 

He gets one strike in. And then another. One more into the chest, but not high enough to be that helpful. And luckily, he’s too distracted in this simple step by step procedure to notice another darkspawn appear to his right. The lucky part being that he doesn’t feel its tallons rips into his side, tearing and taking his flesh with it. No, no, he’s too distracted by the fact that, only three hits later, the hurlock he has been fighting the majority of this time staggers down to the ground with a heavy _thud_. 

It’s then that Alistair notices that his hands are wet and sticky and so is his undershirt. And his whole torso. And last time he checked, sweat isn’t really sticky, and it is assuredly not red. 

All of this is quickly followed by the buzzing in his ears. Alistair collapses onto the ground with a much more quiet and uncomfortable _thud_ . Maybe more like a _plop_ than anything else. 

He hears more demon screams, more sounds of things being sucked back into oblivion, and slowly decides that is why he hasn’t been finished off by that last guy yet. He wonders if this is what Duncan felt like at the end. Did he just wait there and bleed out or did a monster finish him off quickly? 

Which is better, really? 

Time doesn’t exist, he decides by the time someone screams his name. He pushes his eyes open with so much effort, surprised when he sees Cullen staring down at him. 

Oh. Cullen is here. He has not dream that bit. Cullen came. 

And Cullen looks terrified. 

“Alistair!” A hand grips his chin, forcing him to look up as his eyes start to slide closed again. 

“Alistair. I need you to listen to m _— Alistair_. I need you to keep your eyes open. You can sleep as much as you wish later, I promise but right now I need you to keep looking at me. Hey, hey. No! Eyes, Alistair. Look at me. _Please_!” 

Alistair tries, he really really does. He does hate disappointing people so. Especially Cullen. He loves Cullen. 

He feels fingers on his side and suddenly everything is _burning_ and he tries to roll away but Cullen’s hands are strong and won’t let him. 

“This cannot be happening. _Maker, please_. Don’t take him from me. I can’t—”

Alistair tries to reply, tries to comfort by saying that he’s still here! He’ll be fine! But it’s too hard. Everything takes so much effort. 

Instead he hears more people talking. More voices. The only words he can really pick out are ‘blood’ and ‘tainted’ and something about taking him back to camp. 

Alistair thinks that sounds like a horrible idea but he can’t voice that opinion as someone tries to shift him. After that, all that he can recall is a blood curdling scream and the dark. 


	2. Chapter 2

The panic starts to set in as soon as Cullen loses sight of Alistair. They’ve only fought together a handful of times, but never since they have begun seeing… each other in a romantic capacity. They spare together quite a lot, but that’s different. Nothing is as chaotic as an unplanned battle and Cullen wishes they had spoken about strategy more. 

Still, he pushes his worry down until the numbers of enemies starts to dwindle down. It’s then that he turns around just in time to see someone vaguely Alistair-ed shaped fall to a heap against the ground as another dark spawn jumps on top of the now unmoving figure. 

Cullen can’t remember what happens next. He fights. He knows that. Somehow he transports himself to where Alistair is and goes nearly berserk, taking down the monster that still has fleshy bits of the fallen Grey Warden in bedded in the claws he tries to attack Cullen with. 

The fight can’t last long, for as soon as the thing is dead, Cullen is on the ground and trying to take in the mental image of what is in front of him. 

Alistair is bleeding badly, his gambeson ripped to shreds because of course he isn’t wearing his full armor. Why would he be? They weren’t supposed to be fighting. Most people aren’t like Cullen and feel the need to be fully armed at all times. Flesh is missing, some blood is dripping from his head and Cullen cannot tell from what location unless he moves him and he _can’t_. He can’t hurt Alistair more. 

But if he leaves him here, Alistair will die. Cullen has seen it more times than he can count, has dealt with these types of things battle after battle. 

When those brown eyes are suddenly looking up at him mid inspection, relief floods Cullen’s chest. It’s a good sign. It’s something to focus on. 

And suddenly Cullen is babbling. 

“Alistair! Alistair. I need you to listen to m— _Alistair_. I need you to keep your eyes open. You can sleep as much as you wish later, I promise but right now I need you to keep looking at me. Hey, hey. No! Eyes, Alistair. Look at me. _Please_!” 

He knows he needs to keep him awake. If he has a concussion, which Cullen is guessing he might, he needs to be kept conscious. 

Cullen tries to keep himself busy with this task while he attempts to remove any material that might be getting into the wound as gently as possible. Albeit, not as gently as he wishes to if Alistair’s reaction is anything to go by. He tries his best to still him and but it turns into something akin to calming a frightened animal: pointless lest you manage to make them understand. 

_He can’t even offer his partner comfort. What use is he?_

“This cannot be happening. _Maker, please_. Don’t take him from me. I can’t—” Cullen whispers, biting back any tears that may slip down his cheeks. It’s truly like the Maker has abandoned them, just like many say he has. 

The one thing that has brought him joy in years, the one man that makes him smile and brings meaning to living again, and he can be snatched away like a flame blown out by the wind.

But Alistair is like a flame, isn’t he? He burns too brightly. And those who burn bright always burn out the quickest. 

A hand lands on Cullen’s shoulder a few moments later. Dorian. The only mage to have accompanied them. Because the one trip they decide to go lightly, everything manages to blow up in their faces.

Dorian says nothing at first, serious in a way he so rarely sees the man. 

“There’s so much blood.” he eventually says, moving to kneel beside the Commander. 

Cullen doesn’t dare move his hand from where he is desperately trying to stench the blood flow. 

“At least he can’t get tainted again. That’s the only positive I can think of right now. He’d be—we might as well have just—” _killed him._ It goes unspoken. Killing him at that point would be the most merciful. Part of Dorian thinks it might be even now. “Move your hand if only for a moment, Commander. I just wish to see.” 

Cullen does what he is prompted, but the hesitation is obvious. The blood is drying on his hands, tacky and caked on. Some of it black of the dark spawn, but most of it red and harsh against pale skin. 

Dorian mumbles something under his breath and moves his hand slowly across Alistair’s body. The wound doesn’t knit back together, but the bleeding stops slightly. It’s not enough, but it’s something. 

“That should hold until we can get him back to camp. I wish I could do more, but my power is already so drained and—”

Cullen cuts him off. There is enough guilt bubbling up as it is. 

“Thank you. Truly, Dorian. Even if it gives us five more minutes, it gives us something.”

Cautiously, Cullen stands and tries to lift Alistair. He is not a small man by any means, but neither is Cullen. He’s carried Alistair before but in much better moments: like if he falls asleep on the couch or at Cullen’s desk. Now, there is no joy in it. Especially as Alistair finds enough energy to scream in pain at the movement. But there is nothing to be done. 

All they can do is pray. 


	3. Chapter 3

The camp is completely silent other than the low murmurs of both the Grey Wardens and Cullen’s soldiers surrounding the fire, caring for each other’s wounds and getting along in a way he’s never witnessed before. Cullen would make a comment on it, perhaps even compliment them, but the comradery isn’t exactly born from the happiest of places.

Besides, he has other things to contend with. 

They have no healer with them. Dorian is limited in what he can do as this is not his school of magic. The only blessings they possess is that their camp is covered in elfroot. Still, both men try to formulate a plan. They both have experience on the field, and between them...well, perhaps they can think of something not completely dumbfounded. 

“We can leave the wound soaking in elfroot but...” 

“No.” 

“No to what?” Dorian asks, a bit perturbed at the Commander simply shaking his head like a demanding child who refuses to use his words. 

“No, that’s not...it’s a smart attempt but it won’t go deep enough. The wound needs to be packed with elfroot and mostly stitched shut. Depending on the state of the tissue, the dead—” he clears his throat as he stares at Alistair’s sleeping form.

_Not dead. Not dead. He is not dead. You can see his chest rising and falling._

“The dead pieces will have to be cut out. He might not be able to get tainted fully, but he can still get infections. I doubt even Grey Wardens are protected from that.”

It’s then that Cullen feels a slight squeezing of his hand. His eyes dart back to Alistair’s face, one hand squeezing back while the other gently touches the mop of sweaty hair. 

“That’s sounds like,” he takes a thin, shaky breath. “it’s gonna hurt really bad.” 

Cullen tries desperately not to think about how warm the heat radiating from Alistair’s forehead is, about how one part of him feels like he’s been dunked in snow and the other like he was left in the middle of the Forbidden Oasis in Solace. _Fuck_. Instead, he tries to smile as a form of comfort.

Alistair might not admit it much, but Cullen knows how important it is for someone to be there for him. Whether from a nightmare or after a hard day. He’s been alone for so long, both of them have. Even if Cullen has to fake it, he’ll try his best to be that comfort for the rest of his days. 

“How are you feeling now? We tried to get some elfroot to numb you.”

“Better,” Alistair smiles, his eyes only open part way. It’s so obvious to Cullen how much fear is hiding behind that expression. “You won’t leave me?” he asks, his voice shaking. 

“Never, darling,” Cullen replies with every ounce of confidence he can muster. “Why don’t you rest for a while now while we gather what we need.”

If Dorian hears the term of endearment, he’s kind enough to not mention it. 

Cullen doesn’t speak until he’s sure Alistair is asleep again. It doesn’t take long, all things considered. The comfort of someone just being near is enough to lull him back to sleep. It’s only then that Cullen states what is merely fact:

“We can’t move him back to Skyhold like this. He won’t make it.” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, my dear Commander. We are extremely short on proper healers at the moment. While your earlier idea sounds correct, if not daunting, we have no one to safely implement it.”

There’s only a brief pause before Cullen sighs. 

“I can do it. I don’t particularly want to but I can.”

“Another lovely gift the Chantry imparted on you?” 

He gives a curt nod. 

“We’d get sent out on our own often. We had no one to heal us magically or help if other issues arose. So yes, they trained us in the basics. I can do stitches and I can pack wounds. I could technically cut off a limb properly if need be.” 

Of course Cullen is also basically a healer. It is unfair that a man like him exists, Dorian thinks. 

“I could keep him unconscious in theory,” Dorian suggests. “But I worry on a few accounts. I believe he has a concussion. Possibly a cracked skull. And being held under heavy magic usage with those sorts of injuries is simply not advisable. The other issue being, as I stated before, my magic is utterly depleted and we lack any lyrium to recharge quicker. I could put him under, but I’m not quite sure how long you need me to keep him as such. At the moment, I could do so for perhaps 20 minutes at best.” 

Cullen shakes his head, gently placing Alistair’s hand back onto the cot. 

“I’d need him out for a least a half hour, even better one full hour. It’ll be worse if he’s put to sleep and wakes up in the middle of it disoriented. His heart rate will sky rocket, he’ll bleed out quicker, and I’ve.” he pauses like he is stuck in a memory. “I’ve seen way too many people not wake up with that method. I have no doubt in your skill, I’d actually trust no other mage to do it, but with your own concerns added, I think it be best if he was awake as possible. I’ll try to just pack the wound and leave everything else to the healers at Skyhold where they have proper equipment. Really, I should try to ride back. See if I can bring someone here but I can’t. I can’t leave him. Not when...”

“Not when you aren’t sure he’ll even be here for you to return to,” Dorian finishes the sentence. 

Cullen nods around the lump in his throat, his eyes landing on Alistair again. He loved him. And now, Cullen isn’t sure he’s said it enough. 

“Let us start seeping the elfroot and attempt to place it in a drink that Alistair will actually keep down.” 

———————❖———————

The next thing Alistair remembers is someone placing a cup at his lips. On instinct alone, he takes what one could attempt to call a sip and quickly tries to sputter it back out. It doesn’t work and only leads to the hand on the back of his head to tighten and tilt the cup upwards. 

It’s only when he hears Cullen’s low voice that he gives in and stops fighting and lets go of the idea of flicking whatever poison is being forced down his throat at said person’s face. 

Eventually, Alistair is freed and he puts in no protest as Cullen wipes his mouth with his sleeve. 

“Elfroot is deplorable. Rather.... kiss Morrigan.”

This causes Cullen to laugh, which Alistair considers a job well done. He looks far too serious and Alistair can’t stand it. It makes everything a bit too real. 

“I put it in wine. I personally didn’t think it tasted all that bad.” 

“Why wine?” Alistair drops silent, not from lack of breath this time. More so at the look of complete and utter guilt that takes over Cullen’s handsome features. 

“You like to drink last time I checked,” Cullen replies, eyes woefully avoiding his partner’s as he looks nearly anywhere but. 

They’re alone, Alistair notices now. The camp outside sounds a little rowdy, but tempered and muted from its normal coruasal. He places his hands on Cullen’s leather clad ones, wishing he could feel the skin, even if his fingers are as frigid as they normally are. 

“Cullen. What are you worrying about?” 

“I think it best if—you need to be awake from when I patch you up. I apologize. It’s far from ideal. I wish we had a real healer for you. I wish I could offer you something better.”

A sense of terror creeps upwards but Alistair tries hard to push it down. It’s ineffective, if Cullen’s face is anything to go by. He’s also not quite sure how to instill confidence in the Commander when even breathing hurts, but he gives it a go. 

“They would do what you will. If anyone is going to be jamming their hands into my body, I’d rather it be you. You are quite good at it most days.” An attempt at smiling is made by both parties. Sad attempts, but attempts nonetheless. “Besides, we both know I wouldn’t make it to base. I often act like an idiot, but I’m not actually one. I’d die. Ta-da. That’s that.”

And that right there is the magical word that neither of them have said all day for various reasons. But the elfroot and wine combo has loosened Alistair’s lips and allowed it to slip. 

“You still might,” Cullen says, sounding strangled.

Alistair tries to shrug. Hell, he’s been trying to do a lot of things, hasn’t he? “You’re giving me stitches. You’ve done that to yourself countless times. Just...do it as quickly as you can and hold me afterwards.”

It’s obvious how much energy it takes for Alistair to talk this long and this much and Cullen suddenly shushes him with a finger to his dry lips. 

“I’ll take care of you until you’re well again. Though I think we will have to stay in your chambers rather than mine. Mine are a bit drafty.” 

Alistair kisses the pad of Cullen’s finger. “Can we get this over with then?” He asks just above a whisper, but Cullen hears what he needs to and gives a nod of assent, as if he’s the one about to be stitched up by an ex-templar with shaky hands. 

He shuffles away for a moment and grabs the pack of medical supplies he had carefully laid out and disinfected over the fire. It’s far from the best set up and no matter how well he could clean or prepare, they were still in the wild on a dirt floor. 

“Let’s turn you on your side.” 

It’s mostly Cullen’s doing, but Alistair manages to lean on his less injured side, a pillow in between his legs and supporting his back. The pain is fluid by the point, moving from point A to point B in a zipping motion. To add insult to injury, It feels like there is too much spit in his mouth thanks to the elfroot potion. “I sent someone to ride to Skyhold to get actual help. Or at the very least, a better way to transport you home. Hopefully they’ll be back by morning and maybe we can be on our way by the afternoon.” 

Small talk, something Cullen never did unless it was with someone he cared about or if he’s blatantly nervous. It’s either that or no one can pull a single word from him. 

The slight tremor that is now a constant in his hands don’t abate as Cullen picks up the needle but by this point in his life, he’s learned the work arounds. The last person he’s done this for was himself, various times for various reasons. He hates healers with a special kind of venom. Not the individuals themselves, but what going to them usually entails. Unless he’s unconscious and has no choice in the matter, Cullen will simply pull from his own private stash of elfroot and sew himself back up. 

The first push of the needle into skin goes in rather easy and, in what could be counted as a momentous occasion, Alistair manages to keep still. But the top of the wound is the least damning part, from what Cullen’s various look overs has left him to believe. There is actual flesh to be pulled together there, proper muscle still intact and waiting to heal. It is much like fixing a loose seam on one of Cullen’s tunics. 

“My mother would be proud right now, I suppose. Her sewing lessons didn’t completely abandon me after all these years. Mia might even be impressed.” 

Alistair doesn’t speak, afraid of what sound would actually come out of his mouth as he doubts it would be words or, at least, not very nice ones. But it’s clear from his tightening gaze that he’s surprised on the topic of conversation. They both know Cullen rarely talks about his family, never mind his parents. Alistair still hasn’t figured out the why, exactly. Himself, well...that made more sense. His mother died when he was little older than a toddler, his father was a king who couldn’t really acknowledge him, and his half sister hated and resented everything that Alistair represented. That seems like a back story one would keep to themselves.

But Cullen’s is the opposite. He has siblings. Yes, siblings who are alive with children of their own and who actually _like_ him. His parents raised them all and, from what Alistair could discover, actually had wanted them. Alistair couldn’t be positive, as he had never had it, but thirteen years of love sounded like a lot of good memories to hold in. 

“She insisted that we all knew how to sew on a button. She stated that she refused to have a son who couldn't take care of his most basic needs. One would think I would resent it at that age, but I learned to find it rather relaxing. I never got particularly good at it, but I never have to find someone to fix my clothing when I’ve been clumsy or negligent. That and I always found Mum’s way of sewing more useful than any the Chantry had shown me. I like to think that she’d be proud of me for this, at least.” 

For a single moment, the flesh and blood turns into thick wool fabric and silk thread. When it turns back, his fingers once again tacky and wet, Cullen attention reverts to the job at hand. 

“You’re doing very well, Alistair.”

He is, even if he’s paler than Cullen had even known possible. Even his lips are drained of color other than the well of blood that sits harshly against his mouth from where he must have bit the skin through. “Make sound, if need be. Do what you need to deal with the pain, I won’t think less of you for it.” 

Alistair shakes his head. “You wouldn’t make sound.” 

No, Cullen thinks, he wouldn’t. But he has the past experience of being tortured for days upon days, where he had the time to learn how to bite back those screams. 

“That hardly means that it’s right. You are not me. We both know you are so much better than that.” He also knows that eventually, one reaches a point where silence is no longer an option. No doubt they would reach that point soon. 

Cullen can tell when that comes when he finishes up the next stitch and gets closer to the worrying bit; where there is little to bring together in the first place. The part that the demon did the brunt of the damage. It could almost be described as hollowed and Cullen knows that, until someone with either an abundance of healing magic or the correct tools and potions shows up, all that can be done is to pack it full of elf root soaked gauze and hope it starves off enough of the infection. He’s decides to not cut away at flesh like Alistair is a living jigsaw puzzle. He’ll leave that to the option and skill of experts who will also have something to put Alistair under with. Cullen would rather be holding his hand than be the one to execute that operation anyway. 

With a deep breath, Cullen forces himself to keep going, the little noises of distress ripping his chest to pieces. Once Alistair actually _screams_ , he can’t convince himself to continue. He wonders what everyone outside is thinking. How know one has stormed in here to see what is going on. He grabs a rag and tries to clean himself off before moving closer to Alistair’s head.

He had wished desperately that Alistair would have fallen unconscious by this point, but of course there could be no mercy of that sort. Instead, his brown eyes were merely out of focus, pupils dilated from the adrenaline. 

“Darling, listen to my voice. I’m almost done,” Cullen says, brushing his fingers through Alistair’s hair. If he stains the red strands even redder, it doesn’t matter. 

“Cullen?” 

“Yes, I’m right here.” He gingerly takes Alistair’s hand and places it upon his own heart. “Can you feel my heart beat? I’m with you.” 

Alistair shakes his head violently as if he doesn’t believe it. “No more. Please, no more.” 

It breaks his heart to tell Alistair ‘no’. To be the cause of his pain instead of taking it away. So instead, Cullen does something he promised himself he’d never do: he lies. “No more. I just have to wrap the wound and we’re done. Can you hold still for me for just a few more minutes?” 

He doesn’t wait for a response because no matter what Alistair gives, it doesn’t change the outcome. Instead, as quickly as he can, he grabs the gauze from his makeshift workstation and pushes into the open bit of the wound. He stills Alistair’s wiggling by placing a hand on his hip, trying his best to ignore the discomforting sounds in order to finish this. In the long run, it would not be kinder to drag this all out. 

By the time it’s done, what can be sewn up sewn up and what cannot be packed neatly as Cullen can manage, he gently lays Alistair onto his back. The blankets they have are far from luxurious, but he layers Alistair’s torso with them, relieved that somewhere along the way, he has passed out. 

There could be pain in sleep, but usually it was more manageable, less tangible. 

Time passes, Cullen cleans himself up, updates everyone who needs updating, and attempts to make himself eat. 

Alas, out of all the tasks he could use to take up his time, he finds watching the rise and fall of Alistair’s chest the most distracting. 


	4. Chapter 4

When Alistair finally wakes up, it’s to the sound of crickets. He doesn’t remember where they are. And then he moves a little and everything feels on fire, but he still can’t remember. 

“Hey,” a voice says. A voice he recognizes. Cullen looks tired, a bit of scruff growing on his face from not shaving in a few days. 

So they’re not at Skyhold then. 

“Do you want something to drink?” Cullen continues, grabbing the almost chalice like cup from next to the cot and supporting Alistair’s back so he can take a deep drink of it. 

“Why are you trying to get me drunk?” Alistair asks. 

“If you’re asking me that question, I fear I've failed at my duty and you surely are not drunk enough.” Cullen’s eyes move to the injury and suddenly everything rushes back to Alistair as if someone smashed his skull with a very sharp rock.

“You didn't kill me though. That’s a win.” 

Cullen hums in agreement and takes his own sip. A bit of liquid courage to maybe melt away his own headache. “Are you feeling any better?”

“Certainly like less of my blood is leaking out of me. Which I need as it is indeed mine.” 

“It is indeed,” Cullen agrees, silently surveying his partner with his eyes. Alistair knows that look all too well. He can tell from the way Cullen’s shoulders are almost up to his ears that he’s tense, that the only way such a thing will be eased at all is if they return to Skyhold promptly and Alistair is tucked away into bed. And then, maybe just then, Cullen will disappear for an hour or two and come back dripping with sweat and some bruising, having worked whatever unwanted emotions lingered out on the poor soul who agreed to spare him. 

“Cullen, I will be _fine._ I just need to sleep. Now stop moping and come give me a kiss for my bravery and valor.” 

Cullen does so, and even if their lips are too dry and both too tired for it to be very good, the love in it is genuine enough to make up for it.

———————❖———————

Cullen greets the three horses and their riders in his full armor, his eyes lingering in relief on the cart that comes along behind them a few minutes after they dismount. The sun has risen just an hour or so before, leaving the sky still tinted pink and blue like a bruise. 

He finds himself rather surprised when, along with a healer and the original messenger, the Iron Bull has tagged along. He reads the note the Inquisitor had sent, hoping for some clarification in the choice, but other than stating that he would be handy if the need for ‘brute strength’ occurs, Cullen gains little insight. 

Cullen likes the Qunari well enough, even considers him a friend, but still finds it an odd choice, if not a waste of time. 

Even so, Cullen describes the situation to the new comers, watching Joia’s face as he recounts the story. He cannot decide if the choice to send her out of the other healers was the best idea, in truth. Joia, while a formidable healer in her own right, is a no nonsense woman. Perfect for when someone like Cullen is injured and just wants it done and over with. But Alistair, on the other hand…

Well, perhaps it is merely bias, but Cullen for once wishes for someone who will, for lack of a better term, ‘baby’ their patient.

He has little energy left over to deal with a pouting Alistair without guilt. 

That’s when it occurs to him. 

“The Inquisitor sent you to keep Alistair in check, didn’t she?” 

“Yup,” Bull states, folding his arms as he looks around the rather rag tag camp. “Boss thought someone might need to hold him down or at least distract him. Your guy sort of made it sound like you were all in a sorry state out here. The Inqusitor wasn’t sure how well you were gonna be holding up. Besides, it’s been a pretty slow month. I wanted to get out for a break anyway.” He hits Cullen on the shoulder with a sense of comradely. 

“The ‘state’ I’m in is tired. The ‘state’ he’s in is likely somewhat the same but with more pain. I also gave in and let him sleep, which may not have been the smartest thing to do.”

“This whole situation is sort of fucked up. Unique? Not really, but still fucked up. I can’t really blame you for not being up to military protocol.” 

They both stop outside the tent, letting the healer do her examination in private. It puts Cullen more on edge than he was prior, but there’s little to be done about it. “I’m hoping that I did an adequate enough job that we can simply leave. I never did like having to take risks like this out on the field when we were so close to base.” 

“Better than having to bodies to burn because you didn't take that risk.” 

Cullen can’t disagree. 

They talk for another ten minutes or so; about the Chargers, weapon upgrades, chess moves. Stupid mundane things, until Joia appears again, looking Cullen up and down and giving him a nod of approval. “All things considered, you did a nice job, Commander.” 

He nods in a sort-of thanks. She goes on about sustained injuries, giving them an overview on Alistair that is needed but not necessarily wanted: cracked skull, broken ribs, likely signs of infection, dead tissue. Cullen tries to not outwardly wince at any of it. 

“But he’ll hold until we’re back to Skyhold and I have a proper operating table to reset what’s needed and mend what doesn’t have a place. Tell your men to pack up, if you would Commander.”   
  


———————❖———————

Alistair, Joia, and a guard of 5 recruits leave before the rest of the group. Alistair is sedated and blissfully unaware of it all. Still, it leaves a deep groove in Cullen’s chest not to go with them. The Iron Bull stays, seemingly in no rush to head back to Skyhold and drink. Cullen can’t blame him. 

By the time they’re back on the road, Dorian and Bull’s bullshitting is pleasant enough background noise to keep Cullen’s mind off how cold his hands are getting and just how much worse all this could have gone. By the time they see the gates of Skyhold, he’s sure he can fake being fine for a few more hours to avoid having Bull forcefully take him to his room. 

He tries to keep up appearances and not rush towards the medical ward. He greets the Inquisitor, even manages to go to his office and change. But that’s all he can do before he’s pacing the halls of the ward like a mad man. 

He’s taken by surprise when a young woman, a student perhaps, pops out of the abyss to halt him mid agitation. Of course, he really shouldn’t be surprised. No doubt he’s bringing attention to himself and causing stress in what is suppose to be a tranquil place. 

“Joia wished me to update you, Ser. The Warden Commander is currently in surgery. It should be about another hour. I could have someone fetch you when he is awake if you wish, Ser.” 

He swallows before clearing his throat, wishing his words to come out orderly. Professional, even. He knows this is the kind of way of telling him to get out of where he clearly doesn’t belong, but it still stings knowing that Alistair is behind the large doors at the end of the hall. And that, if he were awake, he’d be cringing at the use of his full proper title. Alistair never was one for keeping a blank face, no matter how much training was mashed into him. 

“Yes, thank you. I’ll be in my office if there are any updates I need to be made aware of.” He nods to no one in particular before dragging his feet back to the main hall, up into his room. There’s always a mound of paperwork sitting on his desk but he needs to be able to give those some semi proper attention. Instead, he finds himself eyeing the book Alistair left by the fire, dog eared in multiple places. 

_How to Care For Your Mabari War Hound_

Well then. 

It seems like an easy way to pass an hour. 

———————❖———————

Heavy. Oh, his eyes are heavy. And his head. It’s like a million stones are sitting on him. But he can see the lights behind his eyelids forcing him to wake and has little choice in the matter. With a groan, Alistair manages to turn his head and sink into the blankets deeper. Everything is blurry but he knows the outline of Cullen well enough. 

“Are you---reading my dog book?”

Cullen closes it a sharp snap and places said book on the bedside table, paying it no more mind.“Thank the maker, you’re alright.” 

He leans forward and kisses Alistair’s forehead. It’s still warm, but much improved.

Alistair looks around the room, surprise tinting his cheeks and that realization that they are still in the medical ward and that Cullen had actually shown a public display of affection in public. 

“You had two mages and three healers trying to scourge dark spawn burned flesh out of you for the last two hours. It turns out that since most people are dead and cold by the point they got to you, that there isn’t many clear instructions on how to actually heal it. It also doesn’t help that you Grey Wardens are so secretive.” 

“As if the Templars aren’t.”

“Point taken.” 

Cullen’s fingers found Alistair’s scalp without prompting, petting his hair back carefully. He looks so soft, so gentle. Being hurt may be worth it if it let this side of Cullen out more. The side that can leave the army behind and just be...well, Cullen. 

“How long until I can go to my rooms?” Alistair asks, closing his eyes again.

“A night. As long as your fever is gone by morn, you can be on bed rest there.” 

“Ah. Fever. No wonder your hands feel so wonderful.”

As if Cullen could not get any better, he places his cool fingers right on Alistair’s temples. “Better?” 

“Much. Read to me?” 

The Commander laughs, leaning back in his chair. “Your ‘dog book’? Shall I read all your little notes as well?” 

“Of course. My annotations are the best part. And we have to decide what we’ll name our future dog, which is mostly what I go on and on about in the margins anyway.” 

With that, Cullen nods and picks up the old beaten paperback again, opening it back up to the first page. It _would_ be nice to have a dog, he thinks. He’s always wanted one ever since he was a boy. So has Alistair, if he remembers correctly. 

They have a future. It’s important to remember that. Maybe not an exact place for it yet, but they have each other and no one to tear them asunder. 

Cullen clears his throat:

“ _Chapter 1: How to pick your Mabari._

 _Mabaris are faithful creatures who hold all dedication and loyalties to their owners, but every animal has their own unique traits. It’s important to decide prior what qualities you wish to have in your personal companion in order to create a bond that will last a lifetime…_ ” 

  
  
  


  
  


**Author's Note:**

> If I wrote 'Skyrim' instead of 'Skyhold' at any point in this, I apologize in advance. It's merely muscle memory and too many things having the fucking word 'Sky' in them. 😞


End file.
